Art’s POV
The mortar beneath the Blackwood Bridge smells like wet river mud and century-old iron.
It's four in the morning, the city above me is asleep, but down here, the damp cold bites through my jacket.
Somewhere beyond the concrete pillars, water steadily drips from the underside of the bridge slowly.
The sound echoes through the empty space with the rhythm of a clock no one can see.
A distant train rumbles somewhere overhead.
The vibration travels through the old supports before fading back into silence.
I kneel on the concrete, the headlamp casting a bright circle through the dark.
The containment rune is carved into the keystone, buried beneath layers of grime and moss.
I scrape the chisel along the stone. The magic in the groove is dead, but the physical damage is fresh.
